But a funny thing happened during his acceptance speech. The real Jordan showed his face.
Here are some highlights from his speech:
On being passed over in high school for the taller Leroy Smith: “I wanted to prove to the coach who actually picked Leroy over me, you made a mistake dude.”
On roommate, Buzz Peterson: “He ain't never played against me yet, how did he become player of the year?”
On not being picked as a starter at UNC: “From a basketball sense, I deserved to be on that Sports Illustrated. And he understands that.”
Responding to “organizations win championships”: “I didn't see organization playing with the flu in Utah. I didn't see him playing with a bad ankle.”
On his kids: “You guys have a heavy burden. I wouldn't want to be you guys if I had to because of all the expectations you have to deal with. I mean look around you, they charge $1000 for this whole event. It used to be $200.”
On scoring 20 straight points to win a game: “There's no 'I' in team, but there is one in win”
Jordan reminded all of us – not even hoops fans, but anyone aware of pop culture – that Jordan was the most single-minded sportsman ever.
As Al Davis says, just win baby.
Look at that line about his children. He actually feels bad for them, that they have to live in his enormous shadow. He's a minute away from “good fucking luck.” At this point, it's not even an ego. It's a school of thought. No one is safe from Jordan's wrath.
Jordan was the greatest player of all-time because of this. He holds grudges. To this day it appears as though he would play Bryon Russell – a man whom he probably spent the most time talking about, not say, Scottie Pippen – in a pickup game simply because he had the audacity to question his retirement. He says – in all seriousness – that he may play when he's 50 years old. Because “limits, like fears, are often an illusion.” Are you kidding? Jordan comes off like your dad after a few too many Fourth of July beers. “I can take you. Come on, let's wrestle.” The thing is, no one would be really shocked if he tried to comeback.
Unlike a certain #4 we are all sick of, Jordan doesn't simply know and love the game he played for years and years. He needs it. He needs to be slighted. Mocked. Doubted. It comes across in his love of golf and love of (presumably) high stakes gambling. “You don't think I can win this hand? Nail this chip? I'll show you.” It's no stretch to picture Jordan in a high-priced retirement home at age 75, hustling fellow residents at Bingo, shuffleboard, checkers – anything competitive.
Before his Hall of Fame speech, we remembered Jordan in snapshots. The Shot. The Pushoff. The Tongue. Free Throw Line. 63. The Shrug. 6 Fingers. Air. All these moments were what a Hall of Fame speech should have been: a celebration of moments of greatness and being gracious toward those who helped him get there.
Like John Stockton and David Robinson – the pictures of grace and humility in their speeches. There was a small movement when it came time to induct Jordan that thought he should have been inducted alone, that such a mammoth figure would overshadow all other deserving candidates in his class. I was in favor of that sentiment. Now? Without Robinson and Stockton, Jordan's speech would have been so soul-crushing it may have tainted what should be an untaintable career.
As the years passed and the highlights became deeply ingrained in our memories, we seemed to have forgotten the greatest player in NBA history was an asshole.
